


Optical Illusions, or the Importance of Perspective

by poetesmaudits



Series: nouvelles fantastiques [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Canon Era, Emo Marius, F/M, Romanticism, paintings coming to life, the fastest burn in the west
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:27:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25959034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poetesmaudits/pseuds/poetesmaudits
Summary: During a stay at an old aunt's house, Marius Pontmercy becomes infatuated with a painting.
Relationships: Cosette Fauchelevent/Marius Pontmercy, Courfeyrac & Marius Pontmercy
Series: nouvelles fantastiques [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2006302
Comments: 12
Kudos: 13





	Optical Illusions, or the Importance of Perspective

**Author's Note:**

> this is very much inspired by théophile gautier's short story 'omphale' and the general 19th century supernatural theme of paintings coming to life, which i thought befitted our dear marius very well.

It was in the summer of 1827 that Marius Baron Pontmercy met his first love. 

Marius, then only seventeen, was going through this familiar phase all teenagers experience, this is to say the rather dark, brooding phase during which adolescents are convinced the whole world is orchestrated to work against them, and to manifest their inner torment, they wear their black mourning clothes and hide their pimple covered faces with their hair, which they comb in such an ingenious fashion it hides as much of their eyes as possible. Marius had proclaimed the words: “I would rather die a martyr than go on holidays at Aunt Gudule's summer estate!” and his grandfather had merely laughed and shoved him into a cab for Aunt Gudule's summer estate, situated in the Val de Loire, where the summers are in fact as hot as in Paris, but at least the water does not taste like old rust and the towns are blessed with the coolness of the riverbanks. There are, alas, also considerably more mosquitoes and spiders than in the city.

Aunt Gudule's summer estate was a rather large, bourgeois house located in the historical centre of Blois and to which the shutters were constantly closed during day time and open at night to preserve as much coolness as possible within the house itself. Parasitic vines crawled up the front façade and ate away at the sunbleached stones, and the light blue paint of the door and shutters was peeling off with age. Behind the house was a lovely little garden which was watered every day by the gardener, filled with lush shrubbery and rather beautifully wild flowers that encircled a little fountain, thus creating the most exquisite English, dare I say Romantic garden.

The interior was however not quite as charming as the exterior and resembled more the abode of an old lady (which was Aunt Gudule) than a charming little summer estate. The furniture style was of course all vastly outdated to the point where one would have felt as though transported in time and standing in the drawing room of a gentilhommière in 1750. A fantastic quantity of mythological paintings decorated the walls in such fashion the house resembled a museum, with a great variety of representations; might they be of Thémis, Hyacinth and Apollo, or even Neptune and Salacia. Not a single wall was clear.

The first day had been spent visiting the town under a 35°C heat in black city clothes, rendering Marius drenched to the bone in his own sweat, a most unpleasant moment to live through that made the poor, struggling boy question once more the utility of existence. While he wished he could say he cared about the assassination of Henri III or the escape of Marie de Médicis with all her dresses and jewelry by the battlements of the castle after her own son “imprisoned” her, he in truth did not. Perhaps the death of his father was still too present in his mind, making it difficult to focus on anything else than this terrible sense of loss and guilt. He was not quite in the mood for musings and castle visiting and would have much preferred reading Napoleon's memoirs in secret at night, in the comfort of his bed.

It was only after dinner that he was indicated to his bedroom, a perfectly decent little chamber with a desk, a Louis XV bed, a dresser and every piece of furniture one should have in a bedroom. Opposite the bed, over a chest-of-drawers, hung the portrait of a young girl in a very pastoral setting; clearly Artemis. Her hair, half tied up with a slice of moon, cascaded down her back and was gently blown by a fictional wind; her mouth was small and round, curled into a most mischievous smile, and a terrible, haunting air of realness shone in the little white diamonds of her magnificent, soulful eyes. The artist had done an absolutely superb job, to the point where Marius felt uncomfortable changing before her, and therefore went to the toilets to wash and change, attempting his best to ignore her eyes which he felt—though he knew was impossible—followed him.

He came back, decidedly did not look at Artemis, and slipped into his bed, which, as we said, was directly facing the portrait. He tried to read his book, but the painting's eyes were so penetrating, so _alive_ , he could not focus on bonapartist politics, and he therefore ended up blowing the candle out so he wouldn't have to look at Artemis anymore.

The heat, however, kept him awake; his shutters as well as the windows were wide open in an attempt to let in as much cool air as possible, and a very light breeze made the soft cloth of the curtains dance in the blue moonlight. Beams of this pale light filtered through gaps and crevices and shone upon the old portrait. Marius categorically did not look at her, he did _not_. Even when he hid his head under the hot, sweaty sheets after he was convinced she had blinked, he did not look at her. Not once.

When a crashing sound erupted directly from the wall and which he was certain must have awoken the entire household, he let out a sound so high-pitched it cracked his voice, and he stopped moving entirely, convinced that if this was not a nightmare, then surely it was Death herself approaching him. He heard the distinctive sounds of footsteps, and perhaps, he thought, perhaps if he played dead, she would leave him alone, tricked by his cunning acting abilities. However she did not seem to be fooled so easily and when he felt her weight on his bed, that was when the fear became so unbearable he decided he had had enough, and in one great act of bravery, he pulled the sheets off his sweaty bed head and said, loud and clear: “Oh! And what do you want from me, in the end?”

In the moonlight, Artemis shone blue. Her hair was still slowly drifting with this wind that did not exist and her eyes, her _eyes_ , dear _God_. Marius wondered if she would evaporate under his touch, or if his fingers would burn if he dared such an act of defiance and stupid bravery. He wondered if this was a dream or a nightmare, but the frame she had previously been in was now empty, and the simultaneous feeling of terror and bliss felt so real it could not possibly be anything else than reality.

“A friend, perhaps,” she answered, in the most delightful tone, and her voice was like a nightingale singing its ode to the sky on the highest branch of its adopted tree.

“Then,” said Marius, “Is this a dream?”

“I fear it is not.”

To prove her point, she scooted closer and pinched his arm. Marius violently pulled it away and held it against his chest as though grievously wounded; it had felt very real, Artemis was not simply a cloud that would evaporate when morning came. She was made of flesh and bones like he was, she was breathing like he was, and she probably had a beating heart like he did. And she could pinch hard.

Having a goddess sitting on his bed did not quite bode well with him, firstly because he was a seventeen year old teenager who did not enjoy having fun and who rejoiced in the belief that he was unlovable and no one could ever understand him for who he truly was, secondly because she was very beautiful and unfortunately, a painting.

“Artemis,” he whispered, because suddenly he was very scared someone would come in and interrupt this oniric scene, “Why have you come?”

“My name is actually Euphrasie Fauchelevent, but you may call me Cosette,” she replied, “The painter simply decided to portray me as Artemis. And as I said, I simply wanted to befriend you, you seem like quite a friendly fellow. And besides, it does get awfully lonely in that painting.”

Marius nodded his head and swallowed thickly. It absolutely did make sense. Yes it did.

“Who are you?” he asked, “Do you still live today?”

“I was born in 1615,” she answered softly, which made something distinctive fall in Marius's chest, “I was the daughter of a rich bourgeois, once convict, named Jean Valjean. This portrait was sold after both our deaths, and was acquired by your aunt for some time now.”

“Do you often come out of your portrait?”

“Only if the person sleeping in the bed seems friendly to me.”

Marius knew not what that meant, only he felt the distinctive sensation that elephants were dancing in his stomach as he watched her from his little bed. Cosette was observing him with those brilliant, celestial eyes, and he wondered what could she have seen in someone like him.

(It is important to mention to our readers that Marius was in no way unattractive; in fact he did believe himself to be quite a dashing young man, with a great, intelligent forehead, passionate nostrils, and most charming, natural caravaggiesque curls of a sublime shade of ebony that made him look not unlike one of his famous contemporaries who, at age fourteen, had proclaimed: “I want to be Chateaubriand or nothing!”.)

“And does that scenario occur regularly?” he asked, hoping it did not. He doubted this girl would be interested in sharing a cup of tea with his Aunt Gudule.

“Sometimes,” she answered, shrugging her shoulders. Her tunic was delightfully antique and had this greek lightness that made it drift in the breeze that circulated through the room, “Sometimes... the last one was—he must be your cousin—a young man with a rather ravishing blond moustache.”

“ _Théodule_?!”

“Mmh, that might be his name.” Marius frowned, which Cosette noticed, for she then said; “Oh, don't be jealous, my little chicken, he only came by once. And besides, I know you will make a far greater friend than him. He was no great conversationist.”

“Neither am I.”

“I refuse to believe that,” she answered.

“O Cosette!”

The night went thus way: they spoke till the late hours of the night (or perhaps was it the early hours of dawn?); in other words, until Marius fell asleep, with Cosette's very gentle fingers threading through his hair. It had brought him a lot of comfort—her touch, the very gentle, barely distinguishable blow of her breath when she exhaled through her nose on his cheek, the sound of her light, singing voice—and when his aunt's domestic came to wake him up for breakfast, not only was he exhausted, but he was also disappointed to see that Cosette had climbed back into her frame and was staring back at him without a blink of the eye (only he had the feeling that her smile was just a little bit more mirthful than the day prior).

Because of how little he had slept, he felt no hunger, and because he felt no hunger, Aunt Gudule thought he was sick.

“We shall take a stroll down the quais,” she declared, “You will see, it will do you the greatest good. And I forbid you to wear that coat again, young man, you will faint in this heat; you're already so ill-looking! Come one now, drink your white coffee and then we'll go!”

Marius was polite enough not to complain whilst walking from the small port to the Saint-Nicolas church, nor did he make any noise when they visited the castle of Blois and his aunt served as a historical commentator (she had always been fascinated by French monarchy and was an ardent admirer of _Madame Royale_. Marius thought, in retrospect, it was a miracle she had not been sent to the scaffold in 1794).

In the evening he went back to his room, gazed at the portrait, whispered “Cosette!” multiple times in the hope she would come down (she did not), then sighed and went to change for dinner in the little toilet cabinet linked to his room, away from her penetrating gaze.

At dinner he once again was not very hungry (or so he claimed to be) in the hope his aunt would send him to his room early, and as soon as he was dismissed, he ran up the stairs, entered the bedroom, slipped on his night shirt, and sat in bed, observing the painting, waiting for it to come back to life.

He must have however fallen asleep, for Cosette was the one to shake him awake and laugh in delight when he let out a gasp of surprise. She was just as effervescent as the night prior and he felt something which deep down he knew resembled longing bubbling in his chest. How he wished he could stroke her hair! Touch her peach soft cheek! The piece of moon in her hair practically produced light of its own from how bright it shone, and when she smiled, her teeth resembled the rarest, whitest pearls of the ocean. Marius distinctively felt his heart drop every time she would laugh, every time their eyes would meet, every time she said something witty or charming or both, and he felt, slowly, despite the fact that he had only known her for two nights, that he may have been in love with her. It was a terrible curse, for of course he could never confess such a thing to anyone (except perhaps Théodule, but then again, he would rather die than confess something so intimate to his detested cousin), and besides, the thought of having to be content with only speaking with the person for whom he felt a terrible sense of yearning at night, brought him to extended levels of despair.

Cosette was a lark more than a nightingale, he understood later. She had a certain vivacity and joie de vivre that Marius was not blessed with, and every one of her words was such a delight to the ear, brought such vivid emotions to Marius' poor little heart, he was uncertain he could ever love anyone else than this girl, a sixteen year old trapped in a portrait by day, alive and ethereal at night. If only he could live a most pleasant life by her side in the ways of _I promessi sposi_! A rousseauist romance; that was what he desired most ardently!

The nights went on thus way and his own health weakened, as he was getting no sleep.

“What are you thinking about?” asked Cosette one time, as she sat by Marius's feet, her fingers playing alongside the ridges formed by the rumpled sheets.

“Nothing,” answered Marius, and Cosette laughed, “Only that I am content here, right now, with you.”

“Are you not tired?” she asked.

“No.”

Cosette leaned closer and inspected his eyes; “You, sir, are a terrible liar,” she then concluded, “The dark circles around your eyes testify against you. And your continuous yawning tells me you either find me extremely boring or you are extremely tired.”

“Of course you aren't boring!”

“So you admit that you are in desperate need of some sleep.”

“I don't want to spend less time with you,” confessed Marius, leaning his head on his palm. Cosette was now half laying on the little bed herself.

“If you look constantly tired,” Cosette reasoned, “Your dear aunt will get suspicious, and then, we will have even less time to ourselves! She could very well lock me up in that ugly attic of hers, and I very much hated it there, there were spiders _everywhere_.”

“Fine! Then I shall sleep!”

“Good!”

“Though please promise me one thing,” Cosette nodded her head as though listening, so Marius continued; “Please stay by my side until morning.”

Cosette's lips split into a brilliant smile as she said; “I thought you would never ask!” before leaning completely onto the bed, by Marius's side. Marius felt suddenly very warm and for a moment he almost forgot how to breathe as her dark hair fell on his pillow and her eyes looked at him from her lying position. He eventually let out a shaky breath and lied down next to her, into the little bed, and he tried to ignore the feeling of her body heat against his own. He fell asleep with the blissful knowledge that he was sharing a bed with a friend, something he had never done before in his (still rather young) life.

On one morning, Aunt Gudule asked: “Marius, my boy, are you prone to sleepwalking fits?”

“Gnuh?” asked Marius, as he had just shoved a slice of bread covered in butter and jam into his mouth.

“I hear you talking to yourself all night long! Are you not exhausted?”

“No,” he answered carefully, this time after swallowing his breakfast.

Aunt Gudule gave him a skeptic look and hummed mysteriously to herself before changing the subject and discussing which castle they would visit today; she seemed to be keen on Chenonceau, a castle built on water and that contained the bedroom of the old widow Louise de Lorraine, former regent who had redecorated her bedroom entirely in black and sworn to wear only black for the rest of her life after her husband's assassination (“the famous Henri III whom we have already mentioned and who was assassinated by the Dominican friar at Blois, keep up my big booby!”). Aunt Gudule seemed to believe this would be to Marius' taste. Marius preferred Gothic ruins, but this he did not say.

Days and nights were spent thus way, and perhaps for the first time in his life, Marius was overwhelmed with a sense of constant, infinite happiness being pulled out of a bottomless well. Cosette brought such sharp, such immense joy to his heart, the simple thought of seeing her, of having laughed and shared words with her brought an unstoppable smile to his face, a smile not even his grandfather could have wiped off. He felt much like a little boy again, in the early days when he was still unaware of most problems in his life, and could find happiness in the smallest of things, such as eating a strawberry from the garden, or picking a flower, or being pulled in arms and held close, and he realised, then, when in Cosette's presence, how much he had missed this, how starved his childhood and adolescence had left him. Cosette healed wounds with her mere presence, Cosette loved him, Cosette was the prettiest, kindest, funniest person Marius had ever met in his entire life; this he was certain of.

He was unsure about what he could have to offer to Cosette in return; she being already two-hundred years old only made it more complicated. However she appeared to be appreciating his presence, perhaps because of how lonely she felt herself, trapped in that painting. She assured him multiple times that she was not enjoying his presence merely because he was the only boy around, but rather because she found him to be the most dashing young man she had ever laid eyes on, and besides, he was very kind and attentive, and loved her despite her (as she called it herself:) condition. This brought comfort and relief to Marius.

There is no greater thing than loving and being loved in return.

On the last night of his stay, he had no words to spare, and was in fact in quite a dreadful mood. He feared he would weep all of the tears in his body if he did as little as open his mouth. How was he to live if they were parted after having spent two weeks together every night in a most blissful, youthful innocence?

Cosette could sense that there was something wrong, for she gave him suspicious gazes, and even when she did as much as blow on his cheek, he did not react. This in itself was very frustrating to her.

“My poor Marius,” she lamented, “What is the matter?”

“Tomorrow,” he said, “I go back to Paris.”

Cosette's own eyes dimmed, and Marius immediately regretted having spoken those words. He should've lied, he should've remained silent, for that at least would have kept her happy for now. With reason, however, he believed lying would have been the coward's choice, in this situation, and if there was one thing Marius was not, it was a coward.

“Oh,” she said in a most disappointed tone that shred Marius' heart to pieces, “And I suppose you would not be coming back soon?”

“Alas! I am to study law at the Sorbonne in September.”

Cosette remained silent for a moment as well, and both adolescents sat like this in the moonlit room, embracing for a moment the delicate sensation of the night breeze against their skin, a sharp contrast to daytime's heavy, suffocating heat, and it was a pleasant distraction for now, for Marius not to cry before Cosette, even if his eyes itched so terribly and already tears were threatening to slip in torrents down his cheeks. Cosette's own face was stained with wet tracks that glistened like diamonds and Marius wished he could wipe them away.

“Perhaps,” she said, “Perhaps you could ask your aunt to take me with you to Paris?”

“I can ask,” sighed Marius, “Though she is very fond of her furniture and she will most likely refuse.”

“Then steal me! Take me away in your boot! By the time she will notice, you will be back in Paris!”

Marius sighed; “She lives in Paris too.”

Cosette huffed and wiped at her face with the palm of her hands. This light that seemed to radiate off her had dimmed with her sadness.

“This is a most unfair ordeal,” she said, “And not only it is unfair, there is nothing we can do about it, which makes it even worse. I'm very upset at the moment. I wish you had told me sooner you were to leave so early. Maybe then, with anticipation, it would have hurt less. Maybe I would have been able to love you a little less, too.”

Marius threw himself on his pillow and wept.

The next morning, when Marius woke up (with crusty eyes and a swollen face), Cosette had already climbed back into her frame, and it was clear, it was evident then that her portrait had changed—she was no longer smiling, and the little twinkle in her eye was definitely not as bright as it had previously been. Despair ate away at Marius.

He ignored his aunt's comments about how she didn't know he had loved Blois so much as to mourn it thus way (Marius had put back on his black suit, not for Blois nor for his father, but rather for his and Cosette's friendship, perhaps even their love). He was put on a coach back to Paris and avoided communicating with any other passenger, as he feared he would cry at the slightest interaction.

It took him months to get over it, the poor thing.

-

Aunt Gudule died two years later and her son, a cousin Marius had never met named Hercule and whom he despised strongly for the reasons we are about to enunciate, sold the house and all the furniture that was in it. When our hero found this out (he was living with his good friend Courfeyrac at the time), a tremendous gasp escaped his mouth and the good friend Courfeyrac in person rushed into the room like a knight in shining armour, ready to save the fair maiden who had just cried for help.

“Is anything the matter?” asked Courfeyrac.

“Everything is perfectly fine,” said Marius in a tone that explained that _Everything was the Matter_.

-

He got over it, eventually.

In 1831, the marquis de *** died and all the paintings in all his castles were sold and put on temporary display in the Louvre. Courfeyrac, who was always fond of outings and art exhibits, dragged Marius with him, believing it would do his friend the greatest good to see some sunlight (Marius in those days did positively look Romantically anaemic, if not vampiric).

There was a crowd in the corridors of the museum, and a great deal stopped before the most exquisite portraits that depicted a most formidable mastery of clothing and sensuality—or so Courfeyrac said; Marius had never been much of an artist or an art connoisseur; he could not have done a better job than Géricault for the foot of that one poor sailor in _Le Radeau de la Méduse_ , one of his friends' lasting jokes.

At the bottom of one particularly crowded hall was a painting which, rumour had it, was exceptionally magnificent, representing Aphrodite in all her splendour, inspired by a young woman who had served as the painter's muse in the seventeenth century. Courfeyrac of course saw no reason as to why they shouldn't push their way through a group of bourgeois to get a good look at it, and, as he made it said: “Oh! Such sweetheart!”

Marius of course followed suit and also pushed his way through the mass of bourgeois garbs, and almost went into cardiac arrest at the sight of this Aphrodite.

It was Cosette. It was Euphrasie Fauchelevent _as_ Aphrodite, older than at age sixteen, almost as though she had grown with Marius. Much like the portrait of her as Artemis, her eyes seemed alive and as though following you as you walked, and Marius felt hypnotised. He could not look away.

“One must be very talented to master such flawless optical illusion,” commented Courfeyrac, “The only other painter I can think of who managed this is without the shadow of a doubt _de Vinci_.”

The artist had indeed been of a prodigious talent, portraying Aphrodite with an almost arrogant, mischievous tilt of the head, and _eyes_ , such bright, magnificent eyes that pierced your very soul and read you like an open book. It was magic. it was unreal. Her skin shone like gold in the fading light of the painting and her hair was sculpted in such way it drifted dramatically in the wind. The smile on her lips was unmistakably Cosette's.

“Well, shall we move on?” asked Courfeyrac, because they had been monopolising the best places to watch the painting for more than five minutes and the people behind them were growing malcontent.

“No!” cried Marius too loudly, which caused Courfeyrac to arch an eyebrow; “Let me stay here, just a little bit longer. Go, I will catch up with you.”

Courfeyrac nodded and left his friend there. Marius didn't know what he was waiting for. A sign, maybe. Anything that would indicate that this portrait was just as magical as had been the one in his Aunt Gudule's summer estate, evidence that this Aphrodite was alive, that she remembered him, remembered those sweet summer nights they had spent together, now four years ago.

Eventually he left, knowing this was their final goodbye, and as he took one last good look at it, he was uncertain whether the painting had truly winked at him or not.


End file.
